Elbow grease

I grow ever less deserving of my self-annointed status. The only kind of housework I've been doing lately is that of the reactive, emergency services kind. You know, when you realise that you can write your name and address on a wooden shelf just using a finger. So you reach for the polish and, while you're there, wipe a few other, random things in the immediate vicinity. Or, a child spills apple juice (lethal) on the floor. They have sloppily tried to clean it up with your bath towel, but your Croc gets stuck every time you walk over it. So you go in search of your old friend the mop. I'm sure you all get the picture. I don't voluntarily do anything, cleaning-wise. Why create work for myself? There are enough people doing that already.

I thus had a nasty re-awakening today. Our much over-worked and horribly exploited washing machine had given up the ghost. And at least three loads were waiting in the laundry basket. I could trace the last two days' family activities from the layers. There was nothing for it - I rolled up my sleeves and washed it all by hand, in the bath. Whilst stirring and rubbing and wringing I thought of my forefathers - or rather foremothers - who were doomed to a wash day once a week. Their best friend was the mangle and one of those scrubbing board things. I have to confess to feeling a bit humble. I also derived a certain sense of pride as I hung out the garments to dry, probably somewhat unwisely outside, where the local farmers are on yet another muck-spreading extravaganza. Never mind - I can do it all again tomorrow! The new machine won't come till Tuesday.